


The Golden Hen

by Silbrith



Series: Caffrey Conversation [8]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Mystery, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 04:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2495159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silbrith/pseuds/Silbrith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Case: Neal's graduate school advisor asks for help when an art expert disappears with a spectacular imperial Fabergé egg. H/C: near drowning incident. August 2004. #8 in Caffrey Conversation AU where Peter recruited Neal instead of arresting him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flying Solo

_Notes: Although this story is part of a series it can be read on its own. In the pre-series Caffrey Conversation AU created by Penna Nomen, Peter recruited Neal in 2003 when he was 24. In exchange for a confession and help in recovering stolen items, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant. For followers of the Caffrey Conversation AU, The Golden Hen takes place in August 2004 after Caffrey Disclosure._

* * *

 

**White Collar Division. New York. August 23, 2004. Monday noon.**

"This time last year I was in Paris," Neal Caffrey said with a sigh as he eyed his chicken salad sandwich unenthusiastically. "I'm willing to admit that with the heat wave going on outside, our breakroom does possess certain advantages, but somehow it lacks the charm of a West Bank café. Perhaps we could add an espresso machine in here," he added hopefully.

"You should count yourself lucky," Peter said as he retrieved his deviled ham sandwich from the fridge. "You could have been spending the day in the surveillance van instead of enjoying the ambiance of our breakroom."

"Thank you, Peter, for pointing that out. I'm sensing a new appeal to our office decor. We can hold off on the espresso machine for a while. Perhaps a simple mural on the wall—" 

"Besides, if you were in Paris, think of the opportunities you'd be missing," Peter continued, warming up to the subject as he sat down at the table. "For one thing, you wouldn't be able to study at Columbia. Isn't pursuing a master's in art better than clambering over rooftops and being chased by Interpol?"

"I'll take that under advisement. Once classes start I'll get back to you."

"Not getting butterflies, are you, Caffrey?" Clinton Jones had come into the break room with his lunch bag and joined them at the table. "You do realize your evenings of leisure are shortly going to come to a blistering halt, not to mention your Saturdays and any other free time you once possessed."

"Don't remind me," Neal said with a groan. "I still have two weeks of freedom left, but orientation has already begun."

"And then there are the papers, the countless hours of research," Jones added, obviously enjoying himself.

"Don't pile it on too thick," cautioned Peter. "I don't want him changing his mind."

"No chance of that," Neal scoffed as he helped himself to a yogurt. "After all the testing and paperwork I had to go through, I'm not backing out now. I'm meeting with my advisor after work to go over my schedule. Classes begin on the seventh of September."

"How are you getting on with your advisor? Sherkov was his name, right?"

"Yeah, Ivan Mikhailovich Sherkov," Neal said, rolling his hand with a dramatic flourish. "Sherkov has been quite an introduction to the art program. At our first meeting we bonded over baroque art, then he discovered I speak Russian and proceeded to invite me and another student over to his place for borsch. He even brought out a samovar for tea. After that, of course, we needed to toast the upcoming year with pepper-flavored vodka. I can tell that having him for an advisor is going to be an adventure in itself."

Jones shook his head in disbelief. "You liberal arts types have all the luck. He's a lot more colorful than any of the advisors I had."

"Let's just say, Sherkov understands the creative thought process that is necessary for an artist," Neal replied loftily.

"How many courses do you plan on taking to keep this creative thought process going?" Peter asked.

"There's a required lecture and I've also applied for two seminars. In addition, I'll be working on my studio pieces for the exhibition in May. Did I tell you they've assigned me my own studio with 24-hour access?"

"Impressive. And a good thing. Your loft is too cramped for all the art you'll be working on."

"You got that right. June will be relieved not to have my paint fumes waft through her house. I'm lucky I live so close to Columbia, but even so, the commuting back and forth between classes, studio, and work is going to keep me hopping."

"Beats leaping over fences in my book!" Peter said contentedly. "My evenings are going to be much more relaxing with you moonlighting as a student than when you were off pulling heists."

**Columbia University. August 23, 2004. Monday evening.**

When Neal exited the subway at the Columbia University station, he was early for his meeting with Sherkov. It gave him an opportunity to continue his explorations of the Morningside campus. As he strolled through the quad, he still found it difficult to believe that he belonged there. That he would be at Columbia as a legally enrolled student, not a con artist pretending to be one, still seemed unreal.

Last December he was well along on his chosen path to become a renaissance criminal. A chance meeting with Peter in St. Louis changed that trajectory when Peter recruited him for his team. Then in April his aunt Noelle had facilitated his application to graduate school at Columbia in their art history and visual arts programs. He'd been accepted and now was on his way to obtaining a dual master's. Unbelievable.

To have all these new opportunities was exhilarating, but he also couldn't help but feel that they came at a price. Nine months ago he had no strings and no commitments. Nine months ago he could do whatever he wanted, go wherever he pleased (as long as it wasn't too close to the FBI or Interpol), and set his own schedule. As Mozzie would say, he was a free man with no need to play by the rules. He didn't have all these deadlines, all these expectations.

Still there was something to be said for actually belonging on a university campus, even if it wasn't in Paris.

Sherkov's office was along a back corridor in one of the oldest buildings on campus. The room was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases which were stuffed with books and journals. Prints and photographs were stacked high in perilously unstable heaps of dizzying proportions on the side tables. An antique walnut desk was next to the window which looked out on the quad below. Comfortable leather armchairs invited visitors to linger.

Ivan Sherkov looked well-suited for his surroundings. He possessed a ruddy complexion, rotund proportions, and a genial disposition. He had a mane of unruly white curly hair and dressed irrespective of the season in his trademark tweed jacket and corduroys. Although he'd lived in New York long enough to lose most of his accent, his deep bass voice was still reminiscent of an amiable Russian bear.

Neal had chosen him to be his advisor based on his expertise in western oil paintings, and the two had immediately hit it off. During their first meetings, the conversations had been extensive and wide-reaching on a range of topics from art to Europe, gastronomy to chess.

Today's meeting was to finalize Neal's schedule for the first semester starting in September. Sherkov had good news. He'd been accepted into his first choices for seminars: Egyptian Art in the New Kingdom and Dutch Baroque Painting.

"I'm delighted you chose my course on Dutch Baroque Painting. The timing is excellent as the Met will be hosting an exhibit on Dutch Masters this fall. I'm curious, though, as to why you chose the Egyptian course."

"Painting, sculpture, metallurgy—all were developed to such a high degree in this period." Neal paused as he reflected on the question. "I confess to being fascinated by the mystery that surrounds Egyptian art. Ancient tombs buried under the sands continue to be discovered as the dunes shift. Items looted long ago are found in a dusty corner in a bazaar. Ancient hieroglyphs hint at treasures waiting to be found. It's not only the art, but the stories behind them."

"Yes, the stories behind the art . . . ." Sherkov got up from his desk and walked over to the window. He looked out at the quad, but his thoughts appeared elsewhere.

After a minute he turned to Neal and said, "Could you stay a little longer? Since you enjoy mysteries, I have one I'd like to discuss with you. It relates to your work at the FBI."

Neal grew tense as he braced himself for what might come. Had someone raised a flag over his less than scholarly activities for the past several years? This had been gnawing at him for a while. Although he had never been charged with a crime, the speculation about him on Interpol had been extensive. Nothing had come up during the application process, and he was confident that the background information provided by the Marshals would stand up to inspection, but still . . . .

"Of course," he said with an easy smile as he relaxed into the armchair. "I'm in no hurry."

"This is not something I would normally talk about with a student; however, the FBI recommended you so highly on your application, I know I can trust you to be discreet."

Neal inwardly sighed in relief. _Whoa, kudos to Peter. He must have pulled out all the stops on that letter of recommendation I asked for. I'm going to have to find a way to read it._

"You don't have to worry on that score. What does this concern?"

Sherkov returned to his chair. Clasping his hands over his stomach, he said, "Last Saturday an acquaintance of mine, an antique dealer by the name of Boris Trifonov, contacted me. He said that a woman had come to his store to ask him to appraise a family heirloom. He didn't want to give many details about the heirloom over the telephone … I should explain, Boris is very secretive by nature. He sees enemies everywhere, Bolsheviks hiding behind coat racks." Sherkov sighed. "He can be very trying."

Neal winced in sympathy. A Russian Mozzie. "Yes, the paranoia of friends can be a challenge," he agreed.

Sherkov nodded. "You know of what I speak. Nevertheless, I was finally able to coax out of him that Boris believes this heirloom to be a Fabergé egg; moreover, not just any egg but one of the lost imperial eggs. I assume you're familiar with them?"

"Yes, of course. I believe there are eight imperial eggs now listed as lost." Excited, Neal leaned forward as he considered the implications of one being rediscovered. "An imperial egg would be an incredible find. Do you know which one he thought it might be?"

"No, and he would not provide a description, but he did make an appointment. He was to come to my office Saturday evening at six and show it to me. And this is the mystery—he never arrived, even though I waited for several hours."

"Did you try reaching him on his cell?"

Sherkov shook his head with a smile. "Boris Trifonov is old school, my friend. He doesn't believe in cell phones. He distrusts computers as agents of the KGB. Sometimes I wonder if he fully accepts electricity."

"Did you try his house?"

"I don't have his home phone number, but this morning, I called his store and spoke with his assistant. She informed me he doesn't work there on Mondays." Sherkov frowned. "I hesitate to bring in the police. Quite possibly there is nothing wrong. He may have just changed his mind. If I involve the police at this stage, Boris would no doubt be greatly offended. On the other hand, he may have had an accident. Or there may be some other force at play. What do you advise?"

"How well do you know Trifonov? Is his failure to make the appointment very unexpected?"

"My dealings with him have been primarily at art receptions. Our discussions were about art and antiquities and little else. This is the first time he's asked to meet me."

"I could go by his store. He may be there on Tuesday, and the mystery will be easily solved. He may have decided it was a forgery."

"Very true. Boris is an expert on Russian antiquities. It is conceivable that he examined it at greater length and concluded it was not worth the trouble of bringing it by."

After obtaining Trifonov's work address and telephone number, Neal headed back to his loft. He debated calling Peter, but  opted not to disturb him. Peter had looked so cheerful at the thought of quiet evenings at home. Neal smiled to himself. He guessed he could occasionally allow Peter one or two evenings off. Besides, he had research to do. Pouring himself a glass of wine, he pulled out his laptop and got to work.

**White Collar Division, New York. August 24, 2004. Tuesday morning.**

When Peter arrived at the office on Tuesday morning, he was startled to see to see Neal already hard at work, his desk littered in papers and photographs.

"Morning, Neal." Peter paused and looked more closely at the wreckage of his desk. "Did I miss a BOLO?"

"Oh, it's probably nothing . . . ."

"Or?"

"Or it could be a lost treasure worth millions of dollars," Neal concluded triumphantly. "Yes, while you were having a relaxing evening at home with Elizabeth, your hard-working consultant was researching a case for us—the case of the missing Fabergé egg."

"All right, I'll bite—you got my attention. Give me a couple of minutes then fill me in." Peter smiled to himself as he went upstairs. This should be good.

A few minutes later, Neal arrived at Peter's door, armed with papers and coffee. 

"Weren't you at Columbia last night?" Peter asked as he warily watched his desk disappear under Neal's materials.

"I met with my advisor as scheduled," Neal assured him. We talked about my classes and then he laid an egg on my lap."

"A likely story."

"This actually is all because of you. I'd no idea you'd praised me so highly in your recommendation. Sherkov mentioned how he had the utmost confidence in me because of it. You really should let me read it so I know how best to live up to your expectations."

"Oh, I don't think we need go there. Why don't you tell me about this egg on your lap?"

Neal then launched into an account of the events of the previous evening. "According to what I've been able to find out, Trifonov has been living in New York since 1980. He lives alone and has never had any problem with the police. His store is on the Upper East Side, and is renowned for being the best source on the east coast for valuable Russian antiquities."

Peter studied his photo—a lean, haughty face with sparse gray hair and an aquiline nose stared back at him.

Neal continued, "If someone had what they thought might be a Fabergé egg, it would be perfectly logical to approach Trifonov about it."

"Do we know anything about the egg?"

Shaking his head, Neal said, "Not yet. There are only fifty-two imperial Fabergé eggs which are known to have been produced, and of those eight are lost. This potentially could be one of the lost eggs and immensely valuable—fetching perhaps twenty million dollars or even more at auction."

Peter put down the photo and sipped his coffee. "This isn't much of a case, Neal. A missed appearance at a meeting. A possible Fabergé egg, but no proof. No evidence of _fowl_ play."

Neal said with a groan, "Couldn't help yourself, could you?"

Peter grinned. "Nope, not when something like this get tossed in my lap."

"Could we at least go to the antique store? Trifonov may be there and can clear up the mystery. Perhaps the egg is in the store and I could examine it."

"Not today—I've got a full schedule already." Noting Neal's look of disappointment, Peter held up a hand. "But I will approve you going to the antique store, but just the store. Report back afterwards and don't go off on your own chasing Russian ghosts or phantom eggs. By the book—got it?"

"You can count on me, Peter," Neal said breezily as he swept up his materials.

"Exactly, that's what I'm afraid of," Peter shot back and somehow didn't find Neal's sly grin in response very comforting. "Just keep it out of the papers, okay?" 

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal was elated as he left the Federal Building. Peter was letting him follow up his own lead unsupervised by an agent. Plus, since it was FBI-sanctioned work he could expense the taxi fare. Not a bad start to the day.

He arrived at the antique store on the Upper East Side at 10:30 a.m. and paused to survey what he could see of the interior through the display windows. The showroom was small but luxurious. The glass showcases were filled with fine jewelry and snuffboxes. Malachite and gold vases sparkled on the tables. Oil paintings from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries lined the walls. Entering the store was like stepping back in time to an elegant Saint Petersburg shop in the nineteenth century. 

A customer was already in the store being shown antique rings by a saleswoman. The saleswoman appeared to be in her late 40s, her dark hair pulled back in a bun and wearing a severe black dress. Judging by her proud demeanor, Neal suspected that if he introduced himself by flashing his consultant's badge, he would most likely be dismissed out of hand and would not able to find out anything. Ditching his initial plan to channel his inner Agent Burke, he decided on a more oblique approach.

Strolling over to the paintings, Neal proceeded to study them. Some of the oils, mainly neoclassic and romantic works, were particularly fine. Neal was contemplating a seascape when the saleswoman came up to him.

"Your art collection is quite impressive," Neal remarked. "If I'm not mistaken, this work is by Ivan Aivazovsky."

"Why, yes," the woman beamed as she answered in a thickly accented voice, "I am pleased monsieur is familiar with our Russian Romanticists. It is such a pity that they are not very well-known outside of Russia."

"I have long been an admirer," Neal plied his most charming smile, and matched his tone to hers. "Ivan Sherkov recommended your store to me. Are you acquainted with him?"

"But of course, monsieur. Mr. Sherkov often comes to our store."

"Ivan Mikhailovich and I are colleagues." _Close enough to the truth—surely Peter would let that one pass._ "When we spoke yesterday evening, he suggested I come here. Would it be possible for me to speak with Mr. Trifonov?"

"I regret that Mr. Trifonov has not yet arrived. Perhaps I could help instead? I am his assistant, Vera Bok."

"Alas, Ivan Mikhailovich had a message he wanted me to give to Mr. Trifonov personally. Do you know when he might be available, Miss Bok?"

"Please call me Vera," she murmured. "Unfortunately, no. He was supposed to be here this morning, but I have not yet heard from him."

"That is a shame. I was so hoping to meet him. You see he'd arranged to meet with Ivan Mikhailovich on Saturday but didn't arrive. Ivan Mikhailovich is quite concerned. You don't think he may have become ill?"

Vera's eyes widened in dismay. "Oh, I had not thought of that!"

"He might have had a heart attack and be lying in his apartment in need of help."

"I could check. You see his apartment is just over the store. I have a key which I may use in emergencies."

"Would you like me to accompany you? It might be safer for you." Neal's voice oozed solicitous concern as he spoke.

"That is very kind of you, monsieur!" Vera said gratefully.

Vera led the way to the back of the store, where the second floor was reached by means of a narrow stairway. Trifonov's apartment shared the second floor with a large storage area. Knocking timidly on the door, she called out, "Boris Yurovich?" but there was no answer. She tried again, this time rather more forcefully. They waited a few moments longer and then she used her key to open the door. The apartment was musty and dark with an air of genteel decay. It was crowded with antique furniture, bric-a-brac, and books. Catching Neal's attention was an open book on a small round table by a wingback chair. Approaching the table, he scanned the book without touching it. They checked all the rooms, but the small apartment was devoid of fallen bodies.

As they returned downstairs, Vera rationalized, "He must be away on a trip and neglected to tell me."

Not wishing to distress her, Neal agreed, "That's most likely what happened. No doubt you'll be hearing from him soon. But this really is a pity. Ivan Mikhailovich had told me about an object that had been left for appraisal on Saturday. Mr. Trifonov was going to discuss it with him. Do you think I might be able to see it, Vera?"

"I do not see any difficulty with that, monsieur, since you and Mr. Sherkov are such good friends. We keep a log of items for appraisal. You say it was brought here on Saturday?"

"Yes, that's right."

Vera examined the log, which contained only one entry for the entire week: "golden hen and stand." The date was for last Saturday, August 21.

"Items for appraisal are kept in the back storeroom. I will retrieve it for you, monsieur."

As soon as she left, Neal quickly took a photo of the log entry. But he needn't have hurried. It was several minutes before she returned.

"This is indeed strange," exclaimed Vera. "I looked _everywhere_ but could not find it. I cannot imagine what might have happened."

"This is most unfortunate. Were you there when it was brought in?" 

"No, according to the log, Mr. Trifonov handled it personally." She added worriedly, "Nothing like this has ever happened before."

Just then Neal's phone vibrated. It was Peter.

"Where are you, Neal?"

"I'm at the antique store, why?"

"I need you back at Headquarters ASAP. Trifonov has just been found—dead."

 

* * *

_Notes: Thanks for reading! Special thanks to the amazing Penna Nomen who is acting as beta-reader and chief muse for this story. She had great suggestions for this chapter._

_If you'd like to see visuals for the story, visit The Golden Hen board of our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site at_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon/) _._

 _Penna and I share a blog, called Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation at _[_www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _where we post about our stories and adventures in writing.  
_

_The Caffrey Conversation AU begins with Caffrey Conversation (where Peter recruits Neal in 2003) by Penna Nomen. She and I both write stories. Our 'verse differs from canon in that Neal was never sent to prison and the characters are several years younger. The personalities of canon characters are the same._

_Disclaimers:_ _White Collar and its characters are not mine._ _Any references to real institutions, people, and locations are not necessarily true or accurate._

 

 


	2. Nesting Dolls

**White Collar Division. New York. August 24, 2004. Tuesday.**

Midmorning when a bulletin was released of a corpse discovered near Columbia University, Peter immediately suspected it might be Trifonov and knew he needed to alert Agent in Charge Reese Hughes. Fortunately Hughes was in his office, and Peter rapidly filled him in on what Neal had told him earlier that morning.

"Peter, if this is Trifonov, NYPD will want to take over the case," Hughes said.

"I agree, but the possibility of a valuable art object brings it back to us. And Caffrey's connections could be invaluable. How about a joint operation?"

"I'll see what I can do, but no promises."

It didn't take long for a positive ID to be established on the corpse, and by the time Neal arrived back at the Federal Building, Hughes had already been in touch with NYPD.

As soon as Neal entered the bullpen, Peter gave him the double finger-point to come to his office.

"Trifonov's body was found in a dumpster this morning," Peter said as he motioned for Neal to take a seat. "The sanitation workers discovered it when they made their rounds. The location is not far from the Columbia subway station, so it appears that Trifonov was attacked on his way to see your advisor."

"How was he killed?" Neal's normally cocky manner had disappeared under the weight of the first murder investigation he'd been involved in.

"His throat was cut," Peter replied. "Evidently his body had been looted as there was nothing of value on it."

"Have they established a time of death?"

"According to the preliminary findings, sometime between two and eight in the evening on Saturday."

"So what happens now?" Neal asked, looking worried. "Does Homicide take it over?"

"Normally it would. But because of the art connection we may be able to run it as a joint operation. Tell me what you learned."

"I spoke with the assistant, a woman by the name of Vera Bok. I mentioned that I was a colleague of Sherkov's and that Sherkov had asked me to relay a message to Trifonov, but . . . I didn't mention my connection to the FBI," Neal admitted.

"That's not the proper way to conduct an interview," Peter said, shaking his head. "You really should have identified yourself first."

"I was going to, but she looked like the type who wouldn't have given the time of day to a cop. To an art connoisseur, on the other hand"—Neal shrugged with a smile—"she was very accommodating. Vera said she'd been expecting him that morning and was surprised when he didn't show up, but of course that's moot now. As for the egg, I was also able to find out that only one object had been left for appraisal during the past week. Vera searched for it, but it wasn't in the store. The receipt, dated August 21, was for a 'golden hen and stand.' "

"That doesn't sound like an egg to me. Were you able to get a description of the customer who had brought it in?"

"No, unfortunately Vera hadn't been present during the transaction, but I was able to get the contact information. The receipt was made out to Sonya Pashkina."

"What about Trifonov—did you find out anything more?"

"Turns out he lives . . . lived in an apartment over the store. We had just left it when you called."

Peter held up his hand disapprovingly.

Neal quickly added, "She had a key, Peter, and she was the one who offered to check to make sure he hadn't suffered an accident in his apartment. She wanted me to go with her. We didn't touch anything."

"And just how did she get the idea he may have had an accident?"

Neal gave him an innocent look. "She may have picked up on something I said. Hard to tell for sure."

Vowing to himself that the next time he said "by the book" he was going to clarify that meant by his book and not Neal's book, Peter asked, "And what did you learn from this side excursion?"

"There was an open book on the table," Neal replied excitedly. "It was in Russian, a book on Fabergé eggs, and here's the key part. It was opened to a page describing the second imperial egg, a golden hen with sapphire pendant. Peter, the item brought in for appraisal was a golden hen. That particular imperial egg has been lost since 1922—it would be worth a king's ransom. Forget what I said about twenty million, this would bring in even more. I didn't touch the book, but I did take photos of the pages."

At this point Hughes walked into the office. "Caffrey, this is one fast-breaking case you brought us. I spoke with NYPD and they're receptive to the idea of a joint operation. In fact, they're sending over a detective now. Peter, come to my office. I want to go over the details of the case before the detective arrives."

When Hughes left, Peter turned to Neal. "While I'm with Hughes, you research this Sonya Pashkina. See what you can dig up."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

At 1 p.m. NYPD Detective Larry Wright arrived at the White Collar Division and joined Peter in Hughes' office.

"Frankly," said Wright, "I'm glad to have your help on this case. I stopped by the antique store and spoke with the assistant manager on my way here. What a tough nut. Even with her boss discovered dead, she was very hostile to having the police around. It was like we were the enemy." Sighing in obvious frustration, he continued, "We were hardly able to get anything out of her. He hadn't been at work on Monday. He was expected there on Tuesday but didn't show up. Not a hell of a lot to go on. If you hadn't contacted us, we would have called this a random mugging gone bad. So what have you found out?"

"My consultant, Neal Caffrey, was informed Monday evening by his advisor at Columbia that Trifonov missed an appointment to see him on Saturday evening," Peter said. "According to the advisor, Trifonov was bringing what he believed might be an extremely valuable art object, a Fabergé egg, to show him."

"Nothing found on the body," Wright muttered as he made a note. "This certainly puts a different spin on the case. He could have been followed and murdered for the egg. Just how valuable was it?"

"If it's genuine, many millions of dollars."

Wright whistled in disbelief at the news.

"Supposedly it had been brought in for appraisal," Peter continued. "Caffrey stopped by the store this morning—this was before the body was discovered—to learn more."

"Did Caffrey have any better luck with her?" Hughes asked.

"Oh yeah." Peter couldn't resist a smiling. "He discovered that an object had been dropped off for appraisal on Saturday but was no longer at the store. He also obtained the contact information of the customer."

"Mind clueing me in—what's Caffrey's secret?" Wright asked.

"I think he may have flirted with her," Peter admitted, rolling his eyes.

"Well that's a non-starter," Wright said with a grimace. "Next time I talk with her, I'm taking Caffrey."

Hughes wrapped up the meeting, ordering Peter and his team to pursue the art angle while NYPD would manage the murder investigation. Wright headed back to check the surveillance camera to see if anything had been picked up.

Peter swung by Neal's desk on his way out. "We've got the green light to proceed on the art investigation while NYPD works the murder. Detective Wright was happy to let us handle it—apparently he didn't find Ms. Bok quite as forthcoming as you did."

"Oh really? Gee, I wonder if he started off by showing her his badge?" Neal nonchalantly tossed a rubber band ball into the air.

Snatching the ball before Neal could catch it, Peter said, "Okay, smart guy, what did you find out about Sonya Pashkina?"

"Age: twenty-six. She's a violist with the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra. She immigrated to the United States ten years ago and attended Julliard before she was hired by the Met. She's a U.S. citizen now. Shares an apartment with a fellow musician in Brooklyn."

"We need to talk with her."

"Already called her. She's rehearsing today at Lincoln Center, but offered to meet us during her break at three o'clock."

"Confirm the appointment. I'll go with you this time—no more flying solo on this case."

"You got it, _mon capitaine_ ," Neal said airily.

Jones, who was passing by, laughed. "Good one, Caffrey! Peter's got too much hair to be Picard, but you got Q nailed!"

"Oh no, you don't," Peter retorted. "Not in this universe. I'm not playing Jean-Luc to your Q!"

"Killjoy."

**Lincoln Center. August 24, 2004. Tuesday afternoon.**

"This is nice—I'll have to bring El here," Peter said looking around as he sipped his macchiato at the sidewalk café. Neal and Peter had arrived early at Lincoln Center for their interview with Sonya Pashkina, and Neal suggested stopping at a nearby café first. The café was strategically located on Columbus Avenue with excellent views of the Lincoln Center plaza and fountain. "Should have guessed you'd know the best place for coffee around here. Come here often?"

"Not recently. Used to come here a lot though." Neal hesitated. Putting down his panini, he added, "Kate loved the opera, but we couldn't afford to go very often. Sometimes when we didn't have tickets, we'd come here just to sit, drink espresso, and people watch." He grew silent and gazed off toward the plaza fountain.

Neal rarely spoke about Kate, especially since the disaster last March, and Peter was glad to hear him bring her up. He took that as a healthy sign that Neal was starting to move on. Trying to keep him talking, he asked "What operas did she like?"

"Puccini was her favorite composer: _Tosca_ , _Madame Butterfly_. I used to joke we should leave during the intermission so we'd have a happy ending." Neal looked over at Peter and winced. "Guess she should have taken my advice."

"Or maybe you just need to change your composer."

"Not a bad idea. I was starting to think I'm more of a Mozart guy anyway. Rousing chorus at the end, good triumphing over evil … even if it does take a _deus ex machina_ occasionally."

"Sounds good to me. I'm not a particular fan of sad endings—all that sobbing gets on a guy's nerves."

"Right—you would have told Tosca to cowboy up."

"You better believe it."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When the time came for the meeting, it was a short walk to the Metropolitan Opera House where they were directed to a small room in the business wing. Sonya Pashkina was waiting for them. Slim with brown eyes, her long brunette hair casually swept up with a hair clip, she was simply dressed in chinos and a white shirt.

"Thanks for meeting with us, Ms. Pashkina. I'm Special Agent Peter Burke, and this is my consultant Neal Caffrey."

Sonya, obviously nervous, said, "Call me Sonya, please. Mr. Caffrey explained that you wish to talk to me about an object I had left for appraisal with Mr. Trifonov, yes?"

Peter said, "That's right. Could you describe the object?"

"I can do better than that—I have photos on my laptop." Sonya pulled out her computer and quickly pulled up the photos. They showed a gold hen sitting on top of an enamel and gold basket studded with diamonds. The egg-shaped body of the hen was also covered in diamonds. A small clasp apparently could be used to open the hen. The hen's beak held a large dark blue egg-shaped faceted gem.

Neal examined the photos with rapt attention. "You know what this appears to be, don't you?"

Sonya nodded. "I went to Mr. Trifonov to see if he thought it was genuine. He has the reputation for being one of the foremost experts on Fabergé. I met with him at his store on Saturday at one o'clock and left the piece with him for appraisal."

"What's inside the hen?" Neal asked.

"I don't know. I tried to open it, but the clasp appeared to be stuck and I didn't want to damage it. I'd hoped Mr. Trifonov would be able to. But I must ask—has something happened at the store? Why are you asking me these questions?"

"I'm sorry to have to tell you," Peter said, "but Mr. Trifonov was murdered, most likely on Saturday evening."

" _Bozhe moi!_ " Sonya's eyes widened in horror.

Peter poured her a glass of water. "It's possible you were the last one he talked to before he was killed. Did he discuss anything else with you?"

Sonya shook her head. "No. We spoke only briefly. What do you advise I do now? Should I go back to the store to reclaim it?"

Peter exchanged glances with Neal. "Unfortunately, the hen wasn't found in the store, Sonya. We suspect it was on Trifonov when he was attacked."

Sonya sat back in dismay. "This can't be happening."

Neal picked up the thread. "You see, Trifonov made an appointment to meet with Ivan Sherkov, an expert at Columbia, to show him your hen. He never arrived. His body was found near the Columbia subway station, and so the assumption is that he was attacked on his way there. It appears the body had been looted, as there was nothing of value on him."

Peter's phone buzzed, and he excused himself to take it in the hallway.

Neal continued, "We're going to do our best to recover it for you." Looking at the anguish in Sonya's eyes, he sought to distract her. "Could you tell me a little about the hen's history? We know you immigrated here from Russia several years ago. Did you bring it with you?"

"No, I had only discovered it last week. You see, I grew up in Moscow. When I was sixteen, my parents were both killed in a car crash. At that time, my grandparents who lived in Cleveland brought me to the States and then adopted me. I felt so lucky. I had never met them and we had only exchanged letters. I couldn't believe they would be willing to bring me to this country. But you don't want to hear all this." Sonya looked nervously at Neal.

"No, this is extremely helpful," he assured her. "Whatever you can tell us may be very useful."

"Very well, my grandfather was Russian and immigrated to the United States after the war. My grandmother was American."

"How did they meet?"

"My grandfather grew up in Saint Petersburg. He got married in 1938 just before World War II broke out. My grandmother gave birth to my mother while he was serving on the western front and she later died during the siege. He never even knew she was pregnant. He was later wounded and taken to an allied hospital where he met my American grandmother, Anne."

As Sonya continued to relive her family history, the words began to pour out. "They fell in love. He defected, married Anne, and eventually settled in Cleveland. My mother was raised in an orphanage and my grandfather only found out about her later through relatives. They had assumed he had died during the war, and it was many years before they reconnected. Once he knew, he tried to bring my mother to the United States but never succeeded in gaining permission from the Soviets. Through all these years he maintained correspondence with first my mother and then also with me. He and Anne never had children of their own, so I was their only grandchild."

"That's a remarkable story." Neal smiled in sympathy. "They must have been wonderful people."

"They were," Sonya agreed softly with a sigh. "My grandfather passed away four years ago, and last month my grandmother died. I'm the executor and have been settling their estate. Their house was stuffed with bric-a-brac. I don't believe they ever threw away anything. In an old trunk, I found many souvenirs from my grandfather's family—old photographs, diaries, souvenirs. I discovered from an old shipping label on the trunk that they had been sent by my grandfather's cousin to him in the 1950s. In the trunk were several old matryoshki. Some of them were quite large. I found the hen inside one of the matryoshki. It probably had been hidden there a long time ago and completely forgotten about. Are you familiar with matryoshki? I believe Americans call them nesting dolls."

Neal responded in Russian, "Of course. Your matryoshki must be quite old and could be valuable themselves. To find a Fabergé egg inside of one is incredible."

"Yes, I couldn't believe it. It was so beautiful, I thought it must be very valuable. I was sure Mr. Trifonov would be able to answer my questions."

"You may need to wait a little longer, but hopefully we'll get those answers for you," Neal said reassuringly. He was glad he had continued to talk in Russian as Sonya had noticeably relaxed.

"How about your story?" she asked. You're not an agent. What do you consult on?"

"Oh, art, antiquities, this and that." Neal waved vaguely.

"Do you know Mr. Sherkov? Can he be trusted?"

"Absolutely." Neal assured her. "He is my advisor at Columbia. He's a specialist in western European art."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Outside in the corridor, Peter was finishing his phone call with NYPD. He glanced in through the glass door and saw Sonya deep in conversation with Neal. The way she was gesturing with her hands it must have been something quite dramatic.

Peter took the opportunity to give a quick call to headquarters then walked back into the room. Sonya was laughing as Neal said gleefully, " _Glubokum golosom on rasbubil—_ "

Responding to Peter's raised eyebrows, Neal said, "Sonya has just been filling me in on how she obtained the hen."

Pleased to see she no longer looked like the spooked deer of a few minutes ago, Peter said, "Only a couple more questions, Sonya. Have you told anyone else about the hen?"

"No, no one."

"Did you notice anyone else in the store when you were there?"

"I believe there was a person in the back storeroom, but I didn't see who it was. There were no other customers."

Peter asked, "Was the hen insured?"

Sonya shook her head. "Not yet. I wanted to have it appraised first."

"That's understandable; however, I have to warn you that it may be difficult to recover."

Neal asked, "Would you be willing to offer a finder's fee for its recovery? That would improve our odds significantly."

Sonya nodded in agreement. "But of course. At this point, I have nothing to lose."

"That will be a big help," Peter agreed. "We'll start the arrangements. I'd like you to come by the office to fill out some forms, both on the hen and the finder's fee. Could you do that tomorrow?"

Sonya nodded mutely.

"Excellent. Also go ahead and send us copies of your photos. My email address is on my card. If you hear or think of anything else at any time, please contact me immediately." Peter handed her his card as they made their departure.

Exiting the Opera Center, they paused at the plaza fountain. Neal asked, "Was the phone call about Trifonov?"

"Yes. That was NYPD. They'd looked at the footage from the surveillance camera, and no one else had been photographed during the time of the meeting. But the camera had only a very limited field of view, so I don't know that it means very much. This may be a very difficult case to solve," Peter cautioned. "Be careful not to raise Sonya's hopes too much."

**White Collar Division. August 24, 2004. Tuesday, late afternoon.**

Once back at the Federal Building, Peter asked agents Tricia Wiese, Diana Berrigan and Clinton Jones to join them for a briefing.

"Seeing as how this was brought to my attention by our 'Columbia satellite office,' Neal, why don't you go ahead and fill the others in."

Choosing to ignore Diana's eye-rolling, Neal proceeded to go through the details of the case.

"As you know, Faberge made a number of jeweled eggs beginning in the 1880s and going up to the Russian Revolution. The ones that were made for the Russian Tsars are called imperial eggs. There were altogether fifty-two imperial eggs made and of those eight are now lost. The eggs were all studded with various gems and could be opened to reveal a surprise inside."

Neal pulled up the photos and projected them on the large wall-mounted screen. "Based on the description provided by Sonya and her photographs, it appears very likely that her egg is one of the imperial eggs. The second imperial egg was made in 1886. The gold egg forms the body of a hen and is studded with diamonds. The hen holds an egg-shaped sapphire in her bill. The stand was shaped like a nest and was also supposedly decorated with diamonds. The last documentation for the egg was in 1922 when it was in the Kremlin. There are no photographs or drawings, but the description is striking in its similarity to Sonya's egg."

Jones spoke up, "How sure are you this is a Fabergé egg? Doesn't look much like an egg to me."

"I'm convinced that's what Trifonov believed. In his apartment there was a book on Fabergé eggs which was opened on the page describing the second imperial egg. He mentioned his suspicions to Sherkov and was undoubtedly taking it to him for corroboration. And as far as it not looking like an egg, there are other examples. One egg is even a replica of the Kremlin."

Scrutinizing the photograph, Diana said, "I can see the clasp. Do we know if there's anything inside?"

"No, unfortunately. Sonya said the clasp appeared to be stuck, and she didn't want to force it."

"At this point, I can see two possible scenarios." Peter said. "One: Trifonov was the victim of a random attack. Or, two: someone knew about the transaction at the antique store, followed Trifonov on the subway, and attacked him for the egg. But since the surveillance camera provided no evidence that will be very difficult to prove. NYPD is investigating the antique store and will attempt to find anyone who may have seen Trifonov on Saturday. Any surveillance cameras in the area will also be examined.

"Our job is to locate the hen. Tricia and Diana, I want you to take the lead on checking the pawn shops and antique stores. Use as many agents as you need. You have the photographs provided by Sonya. Jones, enter the object into the National Stolen Art File, and also get in touch with Interpol about it, in case it shows up out of the country. Find out if there have been any other thefts or recent interest in Fabergé eggs."

Neal volunteered, "I'll get in touch with my contacts and New York sources."

Peter nodded in agreement. He was not concerned that Neal was bringing in Mozzie. His expertise would be invaluable. Good thing there was a finder's fee involved.

**White Collar Division. August 25, 2004. Wednesday afternoon.**

A day had passed since the news of Trifonov's death, and despite the efforts of both the FBI and NYPD, there had been minimal progress. On Wednesday afternoon Peter called Diana and Neal into his office for status reports.

"Any luck with the pawn shops, Diana? Tell me you found something."

"So far nothing, boss, although I have succeeded in locating a bronze rooster, a silver eagle, several ceramic owls, and more brass ducks than I ever want to count. Not one gold hen in the menagerie. What about the Columbia Satellite Office? Caffrey?"

"I'm drawing a blank too. No chatter, no whisper, no _clucking_ on the streets," Neal reported glumly. "But Mozz and I have been in touch with several sources and something may turn up."

"Not a surprise, but still disappointing," Peter said. "I wish I had better news, but all the NYPD has been able to do is eliminate some possibilities. They made a thorough search of surveillance cams both in the vicinity of the assault and around the antique store, and nothing's shown up so far. They also inventoried the contents of the antique store. The only item that appears to be missing is the hen. It looks like—"

Jones poked his head through the open door. "Sorry to interrupt, but Neal, you got a visitor. Sonya Pashkina's asking for you."

"Thanks," Neal said, looking at his watch. "She called this morning. Said she was going to come in to sign the forms. Okay if I . . . ?"

"Sure, go ahead," said Peter. "We seem to be done here."

Jones whispered to Neal as he left, "Nice!"

Sonya had come straight from rehearsal and had her viola with her. She was waiting uneasily in the central area of the bullpen and looked up at Neal with relief when she saw him come down the stairs.

Neal flashed a smile as he greeted her. Leading her to his desk, he pulled up a chair for her with a flourish. "Have a seat in 'my office.' Most of the information is already filled in, so this shouldn't take very long. Are you managing okay? I know it's been rough."

She nodded. "I can't stop thinking about what happened. It's beginning to seem like a dream that I even found it. Have you discovered anything yet?"

"Not so far, unfortunately, but we've only been searching a day. It may not be much consolation, but everything from your photographs suggests that this was the second imperial egg. Had you thought about what you were going to do with it?"

"That was about all I thought about!" Sonya smiled wistfully. "I was going to have it auctioned off. I was trying not to get too carried away, but it's very hard not to. Paying off student loans, moving to an apartment close to Lincoln Center, buying a Guarneri viola . . . ."

"A good start," Neal nodded in approval. "And then there's shopping for clothes in Paris . . . ."

"Shopping for antiques in Vienna!" Sonya quickly added, her face brightening.

"Skiing in the Alps—"

"—The Verona Opera Festival—"

"—and won't you need your own villa when you're in Verona?"

Sonya burst out laughing. "Oh you're good! I should hire you to be my consultant too."

"Yes, spending money is definitely one of my specialties," Neal said smugly.

"I'd like to make it mine as well." Sonya added dejectedly, "But there's no point now in thinking about this. Plenty of time later if some miracle happens."

Neal shrugged. "You have to dream before your dreams can come true. And at least now you have the FBI working on making them a reality. How 'bout a cup of the FBI's finest java while we finish the paperwork?"

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Elizabeth Burke looked at her watch. Two o'clock and Peter still hadn't shown up. Surely he hadn't forgotten? He was supposed to meet her at the bank to sign a loan application for Burke Premiere Events.

Her phone buzzed—it was Peter. "El, I'm so sorry. I got wrapped up in the case and time slipped away from me. I'm coming right over."

"Don't worry about it, hon. Let me bring you the application to sign. The bank's not that far away and my schedule's not as packed as yours."

After having picked up the application from a loan officer, Elizabeth set off for the Federal Building.

A short time later she exited the elevator on the White Collar floor. The bullpen was bustling that afternoon, filled with the sounds of phone calls and conversations as agents worked on their cases. She started toward Neal's desk to say hello then thought better of it when she saw the attractive brunette with him. They were deep in animated conversation, speaking what sounded like Russian.

She headed up to Peter's office and was greeted by her remorseful husband.

"Sorry, El. I had it on my calendar."

"You're forgiven. You can make it up to me by picking up Chinese takeout on the way home." She paused and nodded toward the bullpen. "Who's that with Neal?"

"Sonya Pashkina, the violist I was telling you about."

"Hmm. She's attractive. He seems to enjoy talking with her."

Peter groaned. "First Jones and now you. I know what you're thinking, and I'm not going there."

El laughed. "Just saying it's refreshing to see Neal with her. After what happened with Kate, I'm anxious to see him move on."

"I know. I am, too. But he will when he's ready." Gazing over at Neal and Sonya, he added, "I think Neal sees her as his damsel in distress. Don't know if there's anything else there. Now where's that loan application for me to sign?"

 

* * *

_Notes: In next week's chapter Neal resurrects his Gary Rydell alias and Mozzie joins the hunt. If you'd like to read about the events concerning Kate, they're covered in Caffrey Flashback by Penna Nomen._

_Many thanks to Penna for her help with this chapter. She somehow manages to squeeze me into her already overstuffed schedule._


	3. Gary Rydell

**Neal's loft. August 26, 2004. Thursday evening.**

Neal sat at the table of his apartment and refilled his glass with wine. A book on Fabergé and Sonya's photographs were scattered on the table in front of him. It was now Thursday evening, and despite intensive searches they were no closer to finding the hen. All the leads so far had come to dead ends. And with each day that passed, the chances of recovering it were growing more and more remote. Frustrating was too mild a term for this case. Depressing? Disheartening? All of the above?

He stood up and walked over to the terrace to gaze out at the city lights. Rehashing the case was going nowhere. Staring at the photos was certainly not providing any leads. And now he was reduced to quizzing himself on just how _maddening_ was it. Groaning at the futility of it all, his eyes drifted to the easel.

Recently he had been experimenting with different painting techniques. In a week he could start using his assigned studio at Columbia and would begin work on his pieces for the end-of-year exhibition. He only had the vaguest ideas of what he wanted to paint. Swirling patterns and colors, but nothing gelled. He brooded as he observed the night sky. The cobalt blue of the horizon transitioned to a darker palette of Prussian toward the zenith. Grabbing his paints, he spread a large sheet of watercolor paper on the table.

Sometime later, the soft iambic pentameter of a knock alerted him to Mozzie's arrival. "Come in," he called out. "Door's open." Leaning back in his chair, Neal put down his brush and stretched his arms.

"Ah, the artist at work," Mozzie said as he walked in. Coming over to Neal's painting, he inspected it. " _Study in Blue_ , I assume. Reflective of your mood perhaps?"

Neal winced as he cleaned up his supplies, "Tell me you've found something to change it."

"Stop looking at the stars when we are all in the gutter."

"And why are you mangling Oscar Wilde?"

"I believe I've found the phantom hen," he replied gleefully. "Remember Jimmy the Sneak?"

"Is he still in New York? I thought he'd headed back to Detroit a while ago."

"No, he's still holding on, which is amazing after that debacle last year." Mozzie retrieved a glass from the kitchenette and helped himself to the wine. "I tried to warn him at the time, but would he listen to me? Of course not. He was convinced that Wilkes would be his ticket to riches. It's as if—"

"Focus," Neal said impatiently. "What did you discover?"

Mozzie exhaled and took a sip. "If you insist. Nice wine, by the way, although a little too much tannin."

Neal groaned and rolled his eyes, "Tonight please."

Mozzie grinned as if he knew how annoying he was being. "It appears that Jimmy may have been contacted by our mystery assailant. Jimmy told me that a certain Frank Harper approached him looking for a fence. Harper claims to have come into possession of, and I quote, 'a valuable jeweled bird' and wants to unload it fast."

"Frank Harper? Never heard of him. Do you know anything about him?"

"Not at first, but I gleaned a few details from our friend Jimmy, enough at least to do some checking. Apparently he's a low level gutter-feeder out of Philly. I don't think he's been here very long. Jimmy said he's the type you don't want to make mad, but then Jimmy's afraid of his own shadow. How he's managed to stay in business is beyond me. Anyway, supposedly Harper is beyond nervous about this 'jeweled bird.' He worked himself into a lather just to find out the name of a fence. If you want to meet him, we should let Jimmy know _tout de suite_. So what do you think?"

"This is the most promising lead we've had," Neal said excitedly. "We have to pursue it. I wonder . . . this sounds like just the job for Gary Rydell. He's been lying low for quite a while and would appreciate the work."

"Ah, yes, Gary. He's always been one of my favorites, and his skills as a fence are well-known. This is perfect for him. Jimmy's dealt with him before. He could give Harper a ringing endorsement. But aren't you worried about revealing Gary to the suits?"

"They already know all my aliases. That was part of my confession, Mozz. Had to be done."

"What a waste! Do they have an ounce of appreciation for the skill that went into creating those identities? Hardly. Now Gary's just gonna be a tool for the bureaucratic warlords. It's a sad day." Mozzie sighed and pulled out his phone.

"Hold on. I have to clear this first with Peter. It's not that late—let me give him a call."

Neal called Peter and quickly filled him in on what Mozzie had discovered. "Should I go ahead and set up a meet?"

 Peter took a moment to consider. "I'd rather have more information on Harper first, but yeah, from what you tell me, if we don't move fast, this guy bolts. Let me know as soon as you've set it up. I'll get to work on researching Harper."

"On it." Grinning, Neal gave Mozzie the thumbs up while he was still talking, and Mozzie went out on the terrace to call Jimmy.

When Mozzie returned, he refilled his glass. "Jimmy's going to tell Harper, you'll meet him in the warehouse district tomorrow morning. That's a public enough location—should make the suits happy."

It was after midnight by the time Mozzie left, but Neal couldn't sleep. He was too charged. The adrenaline rush had already set in. This was almost as good as the eve of a heist. Scratch that, it was better. Gary was working with the good guys now. He'd even have backup. Compared to some of Gary's previous dealings, this one would be a walk in the park.

**White Collar Division. August 27, 2004. Friday morning.**

Peter had hastily assembled the team for an early meeting at six in the morning. During a flurry of phone calls late the previous night, the outline had been laid out, and now Peter was meeting with Neal, Tricia, Jones, and Diana to finalize the plan.

Harper had said that at 9 a.m. he would drive up in his van to meet Neal, who would be undercover as Gary Rydell. The meet had been scheduled in a warehouse area in the lower Bronx. A one-way transmitter in Neal's watch would allow the team in the surveillance van parked a block away to hear what was going on.

Neal, in Gary Rydell mode of dark shirt and pants, had his feet propped up on the conference room table. Deftly twirling a business card in and out of the fingers in his right hand, he said, "I expect that Harper will bring photographs and maybe the stand. He won't be carrying the entire egg with him."

Peter nodded. "Agreed. Jones, what did you find out about Harper?"

"Not much and what little there is doesn't sound good. No record in New York. In Philadelphia, though, a long history of cocaine possession, drug trafficking, and armed assault. He's known to be a real hothead." Jones pulled up a photo of Harper on the screen, showing a man of medium-build, with sandy-colored hair standing up in spikes and wild-looking eyes, his arms covered in tattoos.

"This guy looks so wired, he's a ticking time bomb." Peter's concerns were escalating by the minute. This was too rushed. No time for proper research. His gut was telling him Harper was bad news. "I don't like you meeting with him alone."

Neal dismissed Peter's concerns with a shrug. "That's the way Gary always plays it. If I bring anyone else along, Harper will spook. In any case, I'll be fine. Harper wants his money. He won't do anything to spoil the deal. This meet is to assess the value of his merchandise and set up the parameters for the transaction. We'll agree on a location for the exchange, where I'll wire money into his bank account after he turns the hen over to me."

"The problem I see," said Tricia, "is that although you're obviously very comfortable with morphing into Gary, we don't know him and how he operates."

"Good point," said Peter. "Neal, keep Gary under control and remind him he's working for the FBI now. Do you think you'll be able to get Harper to trust you?"

"I do," said Neal confidently. "Jimmy's had several very profitable dealings with Gary, and Mozzie made sure Jimmy gave Harper glowing references of him. Harper's not Gary's preferred customer, but he's worked with more difficult characters."

 _More difficult than Harper?_ Peter chewed on that tidbit. Despite Neal's confession when he was recruited, there were still so many blanks in his former life that needed to be filled in. Just who were all those lowlifes that were harder to handle than Harper? That was something he needed to find out.

"I'll first offer three locations," Neal said, "and then steer him to our preferred spot for the exchange. Ideally, they should all be out in the open. The warehouse district we're using today is too confined, and there's a warren of exit routes he could use to escape. We need locations where the exits can all be monitored and roadblocks set up if necessary."

"How about Fort Washington Park in Washington Heights?" suggested Tricia. "That meets your criteria and NYPD could help monitor all the exit routes."

"That could work," Neal agreed. "If we set the exchange for early in the day, there shouldn't be any kids around. Team members could easily blend in with the joggers."

Peter pulled up a map of the city and a few other locations were tossed about, but Fort Washington Park appeared to have the most going for it. A New York Precinct Office was close by and could be used as the command center. Other options were the Chelsea Piers Sports Complex and Battery Park.

"How do you plan on getting him to agree to Fort Washington?" Diana asked.

"Demon mind-control tricks," Neal said with grin and added, "Relax, Gary is a master at this."

"We'll relax when the exchange is concluded and not before," Peter retorted. "You tell Gary not to get cocky. And just in case Harper is stupid enough to bring the entire egg with him, your activation phrase will be 'Looks like we have a deal.' If we hear that, we'll move in to make the arrest. Your panic phrase is 'Give me some time.' Don't hesitate to use it at the first suspicion of a problem."

**The Bronx. August 27, 2004. Friday morning.**

At 9 a.m., Neal was standing nonchalantly by a bus stop in the lower Bronx. Dilapidated warehouses in varying states of decay loomed around him. It was a sultry morning, and the air was heavy and damp with the stench of garbage. Despite his words to the contrary, Neal was uneasy about dealing with Harper. The guy appeared to be permanently whacked out on drugs. That made him unpredictable and difficult to con.

At 9:10 a battered white van pulled up and parked by the bus stop. Harper stuck his head out of the window.

"Gary Rydell? Get in."

With an easy smile, Neal nodded and entered the van. "Hi, Frank. Jimmy said you had something I might be interested in."

"Yeah, I asked around. Heard good things about you. I got a piece I know you're gonna want. I could get fifty grand for it easy, but maybe you'd pay more."

"Sure thing, let me take a look. Happy to help a friend of Jimmy's. " _Perfect—the sap has no idea what he has or what its value is. This is going to more fun than I thought_. "You have something to show me?"

Harper got out a velvet bag and with trembling fingers pulled out a gold basket covered in gems. "This is just part of it—there's a chicken that goes in the basket. But this should be enough. I have photos—look."

Neal pulled out his jeweler's loupe and scrutinized the basket. Studded with literally hundreds of rose-cut diamonds, the diamonds were genuine and of the highest quality. The faceting technique was of the correct period. "Not bad," he said, "but it's Victorian and Victorian antiques aren't very popular now. I could offer perhaps sixty to seventy-five grand if the rest of the piece is of equal quality."

"When you see the chicken, man, you're gonna be blown away. I bet you can get more for it. It's one helluva chicken."

Neal shrugged and studied the photos. "Look, I'd like to help you out and get the best price I can for it, but that takes time, especially for something old-fashioned like this. I could perhaps sell it for more if I knew its origin. Did you take it from your grandma's bookcase?"

Harper was growing increasingly anxious and rattled. His foot was tapping impatiently on the floorboard. "Nah, I got it off an old guy. He had some papers with it, but damn if I could read any of it. Listen man, I need the money now and then wanna get out of here. It's getting too hot."

"Hey just relax, Frank," Neal said soothingly. 'We can work this out. Sounds like your mark was probably pawning some old family baubles. How 'bout this. You bring me everything, including the papers, tomorrow morning, and if the rest holds up, I'll execute a wire transfer to your account on the spot. Seventy-five grand."

"Done. We meet back here at 7 a.m."

"Not a good idea. This area's too congested. I like to conduct business in the open. How about the Chelsea Piers Sports Complex on the west side?"

"No good. I was there a few days ago. Cops were swarming everywhere."

"There's Battery Park. It should be quiet in the morning."

"Where the hell's that?" Harper scanned the street nervously while Neal pulled out a map. "What, drive through all of Manhattan? Are you nuts? Any spot close to a freeway? New York's giving me the creeps."

"How about Fort Washington Park in Washington Heights? It's quiet, out of the way. That early in the day there won't be many people around. And it's not too far from expressways out of town."

Neal pointed out the location on the map and Harper grudgingly agreed, "Yeah, I guess. Looks simple enough to get to."

"Excellent. The park has some chess tables near the parking lot. There are always a few players there. Nobody will notice us. We can be done quickly and you'll be on your way."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

In the surveillance van, Peter and Jones were monitoring the conversation. "Good—make him talk about the victim," Peter muttered. Impressive how smoothly Neal was conning Harper, making himself out to be his friend, all the while planting the idea in his head that the object wasn't worth much. Harper sounded jittery and uneasy. Neal must have been working hard to keep him from exploding.

When he heard Neal's knock on the van door, he exhaled in relief. Jones let him in, clapping him on the shoulder. "Good job, Caffrey."

Neal was jubilant. "It's genuine, all right. Can you believe our luck to have an idiot to deal with! He has no idea how valuable it is. The basket was exquisite. The quality of the diamonds superb. Even without the egg, it's worth a fortune."

"How did his photos compare with Sonya's?"

"No doubt, it's hers. Harper obviously doesn't think it's an egg. It's a good thing; otherwise he might have made the link to Fabergé."

Peter nodded with satisfaction. Part one had gone according to plan, a promising start. "We'll finalize plans for tomorrow back at the office."

At noon the team had assembled in the conference room and held a working lunch while going over plans for the meet. A large map of Fort Washington Park was projected on the screen. There was a small area of chess tables by the parking lot for the tennis court where the exchange was scheduled to take place. Tricia and Diana would be playing tennis. Other team members would be staged throughout the area as joggers. Peter and Jones would be in an unmarked car parked near the entrance to the park. Fortunately the parking lot was not far from the entrance.

Finishing his sandwich, Peter commented, "We still have no solid evidence linking Harper to the murder. Neal, you were doing a good job in building up Harper's trust. Try to get him to incriminate himself."

"I'm hoping the papers he brings will connect him to Trifonov," Neal replied. "Was there any forensic evidence collected that will be useful?"

"The report hasn't been issued yet. Hair samples may be our best bet."

Neal stifled a yawn, and reached out for the coffee, but was stopped by Peter. "Instead of coffee, why don't you head home after the meeting and catch up on some sleep. I need to go to NYPD and coordinate their activities for tomorrow and then I'll be doing the same. The rest of you also take off. It's been an early day for all of us. We've got all the plans made. We reconvene at 5 a.m. tomorrow at NYPD's 33rd Precinct office. It's just a few blocks from the park."

**Fort Washington Park. August 28, 2004. Saturday morning.**

The previous evening a line of thunderstorms had moved in and broken the heat wave which had been gripping New York for the past several days. The dawn air was crisp and cool. At 6:45 a.m. Neal, clad in a hoodie and sweats, lounged at a chess table in Fort Washington Park, a copy of _The New York Times_ spread out in front of him. He blended in well with the early morning joggers.

The change in weather was timely. A heavy hoodie such as his would have looked out of place in yesterday's stifling heat, but this was one of Mozzie's custom designs and an item Neal didn't want to be without.

During the meeting at the 33rd Precinct, they had gone over their assignments. In addition to the team members scattered around the park, NYPD would also have unmarked cars stationed nearby and would be on standby to set up roadblocks if needed.

Neal had been equipped with a watch transmitter. As he waited in the park he reviewed his signal phrases: _We have a deal_ meant they should approach and make the arrest. _This isn't right_ was the panic phrase. If all went as expected, Harper would bring the hen and stand as well as the papers, Neal would verify them, and then the agents would swarm in to arrest him. But it had been his experience that these exchanges never went off as planned. Not that he mentioned that to Peter, of course. Peter was fretting enough. It was beginning to get to him, and Gary needed to be at his coolest. Harper seemed perpetually to be right at the boiling point, and it would be tough to keep him from boiling over.

At 7:10 a.m. the by now familiar battered van rolled up, and Harper walked over toward him. Greeting him with a friendly smile and a wave, Neal motioned him to sit down.

Neal was dismayed to see that, judging by his dilated pupils, Harper was already higher than a kite. Instead of looking at Neal, he scanned the area anxiously, all the while tapping his foot uneasily.

"Relax, Frank," Neal said quietly, seeking to calm him down. "Just a few pigeons and joggers—no one's gonna bother us. We're out here enjoying the weather. Everything's cool. Do you have the items?"

"Yeah, okay. Let's get this over." Pulling out the velvet bag from his jacket in a jerky motion, Harper shook out the contents onto the table.

It was hard to remain calm as Neal got his first look at the hen. The blue egg-shaped sapphire in the bill was spectacular, and the hen itself was studded with so many diamonds, it appeared too brilliant to be held. Studying it through the jeweler's loupe was breathtaking. "Not bad," he said. "You got the papers?"

"Oh, yeah. Damned if I can make them out. Some sort of scrawls."

The "scrawls" appeared to be Trifonov's notes. Nodding Neal said, "I think we have—" when the quiet was shattered by the blare of fire engines and police sirens.

The already agitated Harper whipped out a gun and pointed it at Neal's face. "What are you trying to pull?" he snarled.

"Hey, Frank, relax. Why are you waving that gun at me? You trying to attract attention? That's just a fire truck. We're fine."

"No way, this place is a trap—the cops are coming!" Grabbing the hen and papers, Harper continued to brandish the gun inches from Neal's face. "Get in the van. We'll finish later."

Faced with a doped-out murderer in possession of a priceless Fabergé egg who was prodding him in the face with a gun, Neal saw no alternative but to comply. He had barely gotten in the van when with a screech of brakes Harper spun the van around and sped off. Ignoring the road, he plowed diagonally across the open field and raced onto a side street. Nope, definitely not according to plan.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Listening to the conversation going on between Neal and Harper, Peter wished they had a video feed. His binoculars simply weren't cutting it. Harper's voice sounded even more unhinged than the day before, and the way Neal was using his most soothing tones made him believe the man was already wasted. This case couldn't be wrapped up quickly enough. Harper was so irrational, there was no telling what he might do. Peter hadn't realized he was holding his breath until he heard Neal start to use the activation signal, when he let out a deep exhale.

Then all hell broke loose.

Damn it, where did those fire engines come from? Their blaring horns sounded even more jarring in the stillness of the morning. And now Harper was pointing a gun right at Neal's face. Peter barked out orders for everyone to stand down. If anyone tried to approach Harper in the state he was in, Neal wouldn't stand a chance.

When the van headed off across the field, Peter and Jones followed at a safe distance. They didn't dare attempt an overt chase. It was simply too risky.

Neal was trying to convince Harper to pull over and finish the exchange. " _We could go south and get on the Hudson River Greenway and stop at one of the pull-offs. There won't be anyone around to disturb us._ " Neal sounded totally relaxed like they were planning a picnic.

" _You crazy? We gotta get out of the city. They're on to us. Maybe you're one of them. I should just shoot you now._ "

" _Well, that's a nice way to treat a friend_ ," Neal said, somehow managing to convey hurt surprise, as if he and Harper were pals quarreling over a lunch bill. " _It was bad enough you insisted on tying me up. How am I expected to pay you if I'm shot? You really should stop pointing your gun at me and keep both hands on the wheel. Let's just pull off and finish the exchange. It will only take me a minute to wire the funds and then you can be on your way_."

Jones and Peter exchanged tense looks as Peter updated the police. Could this get any worse? Neal's chances of subduing Harper had plummeted. Their best hope now was that Neal could persuade him into pulling over.

The van lurched and careened its way south as it appeared that Neal had convinced Harper to go along the greenway, then it swerved abruptly and drove back across the fields. It reentered the roadway, barely missing a truck.

Harper's van was moving so erratically it was nearly impossible to keep up with him without revealing they were following him. Just when they were drawing close, it spun off into a side street and they got stuck behind some garbage trucks. Peter cursed in frustration. This was taking way too long. They needed to stop it _now_.

Neal was trying to reason with him. " _You don't want to get on the expressway_ ," Neal was warning. " _We'll get caught in traffic. Everyone's leaving town for the weekend. We should stay on the side streets_."

"That's right, Caffrey. Keep him on the side streets," Jones said as he listened to the feed. "Maybe he can free himself and jump out."

"Unlikely," Peter muttered. "He's trying to save the op. He's not thinking about himself."

" _You're annoying the hell out of me. Can't you hear those sirens? The cops are right behind us_."

"Harper's not buying it," Peter said, craning his neck to try to keep up with the van.

" _You don't want to try for the bridge. I heard they're doing maintenance there. The bridge may even be closed. Then we'd really be stuck. There's another park just north of here where we could finish the transaction_."

" _Stop your bellyaching!_ " Harper screamed at Neal. " _If you don't shut up, I'll silence you myself_."

As soon as Peter heard Neal's words he got on the phone with NYPD. "We need to close the George Washington Bridge _now_. Set up the roadblocks." He prayed Neal's tactics would keep Harper from going ballistic when he saw the bridge closed.

It was impossible to tell if Neal was trying to take over control of the van, but Harper was driving like a madman. At this point Peter abandoned all attempts to conceal their pursuit. Jones hurriedly stuck a police beacon on top of the car and braced himself as Peter slammed his foot on the accelerator, narrowly missing a passing car as their car shot forward.

When they'd closed the gap to about a hundred yards, the van reached the toll plaza where the police were still putting up roadblocks. Ignoring the police and their shots, the van mowed through the barricades and sped onto the upper level of the George Washington Bridge, followed closely by Peter and Jones.

As the van wove its way erratically between trucks, the screaming of brakes filled the air. But by some miracle it avoided any collisions, and it looked like it might actually make it across the bridge. The New Jersey police had been alerted to stop it when it got off the bridge, which now appeared to be the best case scenario.

But that all changed about halfway across the bridge.

Misjudging the distance, the van struck the side of a tractor-trailer with an ear-piercing screech of metal against metal. Unable to do anything to prevent it, Peter and Jones could only watch in horror as the force of the collision catapulted the van up into the air.

The van crashed onto the concrete side of the bridge, where it rocked precariously for a few brief seconds. Any hope that a further disaster could be averted was quickly dashed, however, when the van tilted too far forward and plunged headlong into the Hudson River some thirty feet below.

 

* * *

_Notes: What happens to Neal in the murky waters of the Hudson will be covered in the next chapter. Many thanks to my magnificent beta reader Penna Nomen for keeping me from falling off the bridge along with Neal._

_Blog_ _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _[_www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
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_Chapter Visuals_ _: The Golden Hen board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_[ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


	4. The Great Houdini

**August 28, 2004. Saturday morning.**

As Peter walked along the Hudson River embankment, his eyes focused only on the shoreline, ignoring the rescue boats in the water, the helicopters in the air. It had been an hour since he watched the van plunge into the river, but the last communications kept replaying in an endless loop in his mind—Neal's pleas to slow down, the screeching of the tires, the thunderous boom of impact, the shattering of glass, the screams, the rush of the water before all went silent. Where was he?

Within minutes a police patrol boat had been on the scene. Divers were helicoptered in shortly afterwards. Peter had gotten on the phone to the Bureau requesting extra personnel.

The van had been almost halfway to New Jersey when it crashed, and as a result searches were being conducted on both sides of the river. A half-hour into the operation scuba divers reached the van. They found one body—Harper's. The driver's side had been smashed by the crash with the tractor-trailer, with Harper pinned inside the wreckage. He was most likely killed instantly. No sign of Neal.

While patrol boats scanned the heavily wooded New Jersey side, Peter and the rest of the team members along with NYPD officers searched the Manhattan shoreline. The current was treacherous, so if Neal had tried to swim to safety, it was not a simple matter to figure out where he would have come on shore. Complicating the search were the dense rushes and reeds which lined the river. At the end of a long growing season they towered five feet high in places. A body could easily be hidden. No, not a body, Peter corrected himself, Neal.

Peter was one of the team slowly and methodically combing the river embankment around Fort Washington Park. The wind had picked up, making it difficult to use binoculars. The bulrushes waved and tossed. The river itself was choppy. The first reports from the New Jersey side were coming back—all negative.

His phone rang. It was Tricia. Harper's body had been brought to the surface.

Was that something in the reeds? Heart pounding, Peter raced to the area, only to find a black trash bag. Where was he, damn it? Surely he would have been found by now.

A short distance ahead, he caught sight of another dark object. Probably just another trash bag. As Peter approached, the shape, partially obscured by bulrushes, started to look tantalizingly familiar. Was it . . .? Breaking into a run, Peter forced his way through the vegetation to Neal.

He was sprawled face down in the reeds some three feet away from the water. Peter scrambled down the slope, the tension about finding him now replaced by a mounting fear over what condition he was in.

Neal was lying motionless. Peter crouched down beside him and put a hand to his neck, sagging in exhausted relief when he found a pulse. "You're gonna give me a heart attack, kid—you gotta stop doing this," he muttered, resting his hand lightly on Neal's shoulder while taking several deep breaths to get his emotions back in control.

Pausing to give a quick call to Tricia to alert the others and dispatch the EMTs, Peter then slowly rolled Neal over on his back.

Eyes still closed, Neal groaned at the movement.

"Easy, there," Peter said as he took off his jacket and put it under his head. "You're safe now. It's Peter. Neal, can you hear me? Open your eyes."

Neal blinked slowly, grimacing. "Peter . . . ?  What . . . ?" His words were slurred, his eyes not tracking.

"The EMTs are on their way. You're going to be fine. Don't try to move. Just lie quietly."

Peter took out a handkerchief and gently wiped some of the muddy smears off his face. Neal was a mess—his hair plastered down with mud and water, his clothes ripped in several places. Probable concussion. No telling what else, but he didn't want to risk checking him out. The medics would soon be here.

Neal's eyes wandered, squinting groggily at his surroundings, and then returned to Peter. "You . . . found me."

"Better believe it." Peter waited till Neal focused on him. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Harper?"

Peter shook his head and said quietly, "Didn't make it."

Neal nodded jerkily and struggled to sit up.

"Hey, no need for that. Let's wait for the medics." Putting a hand on his shoulder, Peter gently pressed him back.

Ignoring him, Neal continued to struggle and with an unsteady hand fumbled with his jacket's zipper.

"Neal, talk to me. Does your chest hurt?"

"Help . . . unzip . . . . "

Neal was growing increasingly agitated, so to calm him Peter unzipped his jacket. "There. Feeling better now?"

Hearing a car pull up on the roadside, Peter stood up briefly to wave. Jones started clambering down the slope.

Neal was reaching with his hand into his jacket and as Peter crouched back down to help, pulled out a nylon pouch. Handing it to Peter, he gave an exhausted smile. "Got it."

Peter stared at him in astonishment. "You managed to hold on to this? What am I saying—of course, you did."

Jones had made his way down to them and reported, "Tricia and the EMTs are right behind me. Should be here any minute." Looking down at Neal he smiled broadly. "So this is where you've been hiding! You gotta stop making it so difficult. This isn't Tuesday, you know."

Peter smiled to himself. Trust Jones to bring up Tuesday Tails, the team's custom of tailing Neal over the lunch hour on Tuesdays to refine their skills. Jones had made it his personal mission to beat Neal at it and so far hadn't succeeded. His lightheartedness was good for Neal now, and he appeared to be focusing better.

Neal squinted blearily at Jones, "You were . . . looking for me?"

"Damn straight. Me, Diana, Tricia, the whole team—"

Neal interrupted in disbelief, "How many?"

"Counting White Collar, NYPD, choppers, boats . . . all of them, I think," Peter replied.

"Huh." Neal looked so flummoxed at the news, Peter was sorely tempted to ruffle his hair and stopped himself just in time.

Standing up, Jones waved to Tricia who along with an ambulance had pulled up next to his car. She and two medics carrying a gurney climbed down the slope.

While the medics checking his vitals, Tricia smiled down at Neal and said, "You gave us quite a scare. You know that, right?" She added quietly, "Peter, if you want to go back with Neal, we can take care of things here."

"Thanks, Tricia." Giving the pouch to her, Peter said. "Keep this very safe."

As the medics applied a neck brace and strapped him onto the gurney, Neal pleaded with Peter, "No hospital . . . Peter . . . please."

Peter shook his head. "Sorry, buddy. Humor me on this. Anyone who takes a swan dive off the George Washington Bridge wins a deluxe ride to the nearest hospital. But I'll be there with you and I promise you won't stay there any longer than necessary."

Putting a hand on Neal's shoulder, Tricia leant down and whispered, "Don't worry, Houdini, I'm willing to bet, you'll be making an escape from there in no time."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

NY Presbyterian Hospital was only a short distance away. Once they'd arrived and Neal had been whisked off to be examined, Peter kept himself busy making phone calls—back to the Bureau, NYPD, and Elizabeth. El offered to join him at the hospital, but he advised holding off until he heard back from the doctors.

The van had not been brought up to the surface yet, but was being searched by police divers. Very little of use had been found.

Jones, on the other hand, had more positive news. "That was some pouch Neal gave you," he said. "I've never seen anything like the construction. It was triple-lined and had a zipper that must have been made by NASA. We opened it and it wasn't even damp inside!"

Peter chuckled. "My money's on Mozzie."

"Yeah, well maybe we should have him make us some. Inside was the hen with the stand, as well as the papers Harper had talked about. They're being analyzed now."

"Family of Neal Caffrey?" the receptionist called out.

"Talk with you later, Jones. I'm being paged."

"Let us know about Neal."

"I'll do that." Peter went up to the desk. "I'm Neal's supervisor. I have his emergency medical authorization."

A doctor signaled to Peter from behind the desk. "Please follow me. I'm Dr. Liu and have been attending Mr. Caffrey. He's been asking for you, and with the medication in his system, that's a wise idea. He may not remember very much."

As they walked down the corridor Peter asked, "How is he?"

"Mr. Caffrey was an extremely lucky man. For anyone to survive a crash with a tractor-trailer and then a plunge into the river is truly remarkable. But he didn't escape unscathed. He has bruised ribs as well as chest contusions. He also suffered a concussion. Fortunately his lungs are clear, but I'd still like him to be on a course of antibiotics. The Hudson River can have some nasty microorganisms."

The doctor, a slim Asian woman, showed Peter into a small ER examining room. Neal was lying propped up with pillows on a gurney that had been partially raised, an IV attached to his left hand, and a neck brace by his side. He was conscious, but his eyes were unfocused. When Peter arrived he gave him a sloppy grin. "Hey, buddy."

"Hey, yourself. Good to see you looking so bright-eyed." Peter lied with a smile.

"Mr. Caffrey, did you slip out of your neck brace again?" Dr. Liu exclaimed. She strapped it back on and, looking rather frazzled, explained to Peter, "This is the third time I've had to do this."

"Not my fault, 'm a Houdini." Neal smiled blissfully. "Can I leave now?"

"Oh, I don't think we're quite ready for that," Dr. Liu admonished. "I'd like to run a CT scan and a few more tests. But if everything checks out, you could leave later this afternoon, but _only_ if there is someone to closely monitor you for the next forty-eight hours."

"Not a problem," Peter said as he watched Neal eye the door speculatively. That was a no-brainer. Neal's cousin Henry had warned Peter about Neal's fondness for playing the Hospital Game, a variation on hide-and-seek which he'd refined into a game of strategy with the complexity of three-dimensional chess, and he had no intention of chasing a concussed Neal through the thirty-plus floors of NY Presbyterian Hospital.

"Could you also help me convince him not to slip out of his neck brace again?" Dr. Liu asked.

Laying a hand on Neal's shoulder, Peter said, "All right, now behave yourself and don't give the doctor any more grief or the deal's off and you'll be stuck in the hospital. I'm going to run by the office and then go by your place to pick up some clothes. I'll be back shortly. I fully expect that you will be present and accounted for. Got it? And enjoy those good drugs while they last."

That last piece of advice was probably not necessary, as Neal's eyes were sliding shut while Peter talked.

"Don't worry," Dr. Liu said. "We'll take excellent care of him and will make sure he and his neck brace don't wander off."

After giving her his contact information, Peter headed for the Federal Building to catch up on developments. It would take days before the van could be hoisted to the surface, but it had already been thoroughly searched. Nothing relevant to the Trifonov murder had been found. The only evidence was what had been provided by Neal.

Jones showed him the pouch. An intricate zipper mechanism, the likes of which Peter had never seen, had kept the contents dry. The papers were still being analyzed, but the preliminary findings were that they were notes in Russian.

Peter sent his team home, while he collected the reams of forms that were going to be necessary to submit after the morning's events. He then stopped off at Neal's loft. When he called El at the hospital, she'd been the one to suggest bringing Neal to their place to recuperate, and he hoped it wasn't going to be too much of a challenge talking Neal into it. When he discovered June was out of town visiting a daughter, he knew there was no other viable option.

It was after four by the time Peter returned to the hospital. He was taken back to a small room and told Dr. Liu would see him shortly.

Neal was resting when Peter entered. He appeared to be asleep but opened his eyes when he heard footsteps. "Come to extract me, I hope?"

"How are you feeling?" Peter asked, pleased to find him so lucid.

"Been better." Neal admitted and winced as he tried to raise himself.

"I see the neck brace is off," Peter said as he helped him prop himself up on the pillows. "I hope they removed it, not you?"

"Neck brace? Did I have one?" Neal asked, puzzled. "Wait—Sonya, does she know?"

Peter nodded. "Called her from the office. You might say she was excited . . . started speaking in Russian. Took her a while to realize I wasn't following what she was saying." Peter chuckled at the memory. "She asked me to express her gratitude to her 'white knight'. She said you were her, I think this is right, _ritsar_? Something like that."

"Never been called that before," Neal said, surprised. " _Ritsar_ , huh?"

"I like it. Has a nice ring to it. Oh, and the hen's in lockdown. Not flying off anywhere."

Dr. Liu entered the room, chart in hand. "Agent Burke, I'm glad to see you're back."

"I see the neck brace is off. I hope you did that," Peter asked with an uneasy glance at his Houdini on the bed.

"Yes, fortunately for both our sakes, it's no longer needed. We've completed our tests, and the results have all been very encouraging. However, the basic facts of his concussion and contusions are still the same. If you're able to vouch for him being monitored, Mr. Caffrey can be released now."

Peter nodded, "He'll be staying with my wife and me." Ignoring Neal's frown, he continued, "I assume you have his medication instructions and what to watch out for?"

"Yes," she replied as she handed him a sheaf of papers. "Everything is written down as well as instructions for a follow-up appointment. Mr. Caffrey will have dizzy spells and possibly nausea for a few days. This is natural under the circumstances and not something to be unduly concerned about. In addition he's going to need to take it easy to give his ribs time to heal. That could take a few weeks. He can take his prescription meds starting at 10 p.m. tonight." Turning to Neal, she added, "Get some rest, Mr. Caffrey, and try to avoid falling off bridges. An orderly will come by shortly with a wheelchair to take you out."

After the doctor left, Neal struggled to sit up and Peter came over to help. "Ready to get out of that fetching blue polka dot hospital gown?"

"Yes, please. It makes my head worse just to look at it." Neal grimaced as he slowly got out of his gown. His chest was a mass of bruises. Wincing, Peter was glad he'd brought loose clothes.

"Did you get these from the crash with the truck or from the river?" he asked as he helped him change.

"Mainly from the crash, I think. I guess I was lucky the van had airbags. It was in such bad shape, I was sure they wouldn't work. In the end, Harper's bag helped me more than it helped him." With a groan, Neal sank back into the pillows. "Who would have thought getting dressed would be such an ordeal," he said despondently.

"Lucky for you the dress code at my house is strictly casual. I don't think you're going to miss your suits for a while."

"About that, Peter—I'll be fine at my place. I don't want to impose on you and Elizabeth."

"She was the one who insisted," Peter interrupted. "Not open for discussion. Besides, June's away and your only other option is to stay here."

The orderly's arrival forestalled any further arguments. Neal got to his feet unsteadily and immediately started to list to one side. Peter and the orderly grabbed his arms to prevent him toppling over.

"Give me a minute till the room stops being so spinny," he muttered, taking deep breaths.

"Now you see why I didn't think tackling four flights of stairs with a concussion was a good idea," Peter said firmly. "You're staying with us till the world stops being so 'spinny'. And no charging off to fight dragons anytime soon either."

The drive to Brooklyn passed quickly as Neal fell asleep almost as soon as they left, not waking even when Peter stopped to get his prescriptions filled. As Peter drove along DeKalb Avenue, he woke up and looked around in confusion. "Where are we?"

"Almost home. Good nap? "

"This isn't Riverside Drive."

"Nope, you're staying with El and me, remember?"

Leaning his head back against the headrest, Neal closed his eyes again wearily. "Sorry, forgot . . . muddled."

"Don't worry about it. All part of the 'fun' of having a concussion. How you feeling?"

"Peachy, just peachy," Neal said with a groan.

"We're almost there, sunshine."

Fortunately a parking space was available right in front of his house. "Don't try to get out just yet. Let me help," Peter warned.

"Not fighting you on that."

El came out to greet them and assist. "Sweetie, you look exhausted. I've got everything ready for you upstairs. Do you need to rest before tackling the stairs?"

Neal started to shake his head and then quickly stopped, giving a hiss. "Thanks, but if I stop, I may not be able to get up. Better keep moving."

"Good idea," Peter encouraged. "Bed is where you belong."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"What a day!" Peter sighed wearily as he flopped onto the couch.

El brought him a beer and curled up next to him. "Neal doing okay upstairs?"

"I barely got him to bed, before he fell asleep. I don't think we'll be hearing anything from him for a while."

"I was looking over his paperwork while you were upstairs. Hopefully he can sleep till it's time for his meds. He's probably not feeling like eating anyway. But how about you? You must be starving. I have lasagna," she added enticingly. "I wasn't planning on serving it to Neal—it would have been too heavy—but I'm guessing you could manage it?"

"You got that right. You'll be happy to hear that my stomach's not feeling one bit queasy. I'll even be a martyr and eat for Neal too."

With a laugh, El got busy in the kitchen while he relaxed. A short time later, over lasagna and hot Italian bread, Peter filled her in on the day's events.

"I can only imagine how you must have felt when you saw the van plunge into the water," El said as she dished out a generous portion for him.

"That sight is seared into my brain," Peter said. "I don't know if I'll ever get over it. When I found him face down in the reeds, honestly, I was petrified he was dead. You go into these ops preparing all you can, trying to plan for every contingency, and then events intrude, making a shambles of it all."

"You couldn't have anticipated those fire trucks. If it hadn't been for them, all probably would have gone according to your plan."

"Maybe, but with Neal, the plan has a nasty habit of getting tossed out right at the critical moment."

El laid a hand on Peter's arm and squeezed it. "The important thing is that Neal made it out safely. You found him."

"You know what the team's calling him now? The Great Houdini. As if he weren't reckless enough. How am I gonna rein him in now?"

"You'll think of a way," she said calmly, "but from what you told me, it doesn't sound like Neal had any choice. And if he didn't have all those daredevil skills, I don't want to think about what would have happened. Why don't you put off for another day figuring out how to manage your Houdini? Nothing's going to happen now—he's safely tucked in bed. After dinner let's just relax, maybe watch a movie?"

Peter put his arm around her. "That's the best offer I've heard. You can even pick out a chick flick, as long as ice cream comes with it."

"You got it, mister."

Stretched out on the couch with Elizabeth beside him, Peter felt the tension which had been gnawing at him all day slowly dissipate. He hadn't watched _Sleepless in Seattle_ in ages. Tom Hanks wasn't bad . . . Meg Ryan was cute . . . Was that Satchmo snoring? Relaxing . . . music . . . .

Peter was jolted awake by a loud thud and cry. "What was that?"

Satchmo had jumped up and was barking.

El said worriedly, "It came from upstairs. It must be Neal."

"I'll go check." Now fully awake, Peter sprinted upstairs.

 

* * *

_Notes: Thanks for reading and for your comments! Special thanks to my wonderful beta and mentor Penna Nomen for her many helpful suggestions, including how Neal would react to a neck brace. If you'd like to read more about the Hospital Game, Henry's warning to Peter can be found in Penna's story By the Book._

_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_ _Chapter Visuals: The Golden Hen board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


	5. The Return of the Hen

_Notes: If nightmares and drowning are triggers for you, please skip the first section in italics._

* * *

 

_Water. Water rushes in through the open windows. Torrents of water. As the water floods the van, time slows down. The water laps up to his waist, then his shoulders, his head. Gradually the van sinks to the bottom of the river. But it's so peaceful. There's no noise. Just water. He's cushioned by the water as he falls. This is it. This is the end. Odd. Shouldn't he be afraid?_

_His arms stretch out languorously, caressed by the water. His left hand bumps against something. As he gazes at the ceiling of the van, his fingers delicately probe the surface of what he touched. Something soft. Hair. Then something hard with indentations. A head. God, a head! He turns to look and is filled with horror. Harper floats beside him, his body swollen, his eyes bulging and accusing._

_Neal screams and screams._

_Flee. He has to flee. He has to escape. He can't breathe. He struggles to swim out of the window, but his left foot is stuck. For an eternity he struggles but the foot is trapped. He turns around, dreading to see Harper, but this is even worse. Harper holds his foot in a death grip. Frantic, he kicks and kicks against him._

_At last he frees himself. But he still can't breathe. He takes in huge lungfuls of water, but he can't breathe. Desperately he uses all his remaining strength to swim up, up towards the light, away from his prison, away from his coffin._

_He swims up for what must be miles. At last he sees a shape above him. A boat? If he can reach it, he will be safe. He finally reaches it and puts out an arm. Is this a boat? He grabs at the sides, and it capsizes._

_There floating above him is not a boat but a body. He recognizes it—a younger version of himself. It's what he looked like when he ran away, when he drowned in the lake. His own face stares back at him. Empty eyes. Dead eyes._

_Flee! Swim away! But where? Back down to the van? He gulps more gallons of water. His head pounds. Someone seizes his legs. He screams and risks a quick look over his shoulder. It is his younger self holding on to him, not letting go. He is frozen in terror. His head is going to explode but he can do nothing. This is how it feels to die._

_Then he is seized again. "You're not me!" he screams and fights back. More hands. "Stay away!" He wants to yell but what comes out is only a whisper. He's too exhausted. He can't fight it anymore._

"Neal . . . it's okay . . . relax . . .  you're safe. C'mon, open your eyes. Neal . . ."

Hands are gripping him, refusing to let go. This time not cold and clutching, but warm and strong. Maybe he could open his eyes. But would he just see himself?

"Neal . . . c'mon . . . open your eyes . . . Neal . . . ."

Opening his eyes a crack—God, his head hurt—he tried to focus. This time, not Harper, not himself, but Peter loomed in front of him. His eyes looked enormous, but they were filled with concern, not terror.

"That's it . . . relax . . . you're safe . . .  deep breaths . . .  slow it down, Neal . . . you're safe . . . ."

Leaning into the solid strength that was Peter, he slowly brought his breathing under control. Air, he was breathing air. He didn't need to gulp water. Air . . . .

Gradually his heart stopped trying to pound out of his chest. But he was totally drained. He hurt everywhere, the pain spreading from his chest to the jackhammer splitting his skull apart.

From somewhere overhead a glass appeared. "Small sips. It's just water. It will help." A woman's voice. Ellen? Was she at the lake? No, Peter wasn't at the lake. Peter . . . Elizabeth, yes, Elizabeth.

"Feeling a little better?"

Neal nodded slowly, not trusting his voice yet.

Peter relaxed his hold on him. "I'm gonna get you disentangled from these sheets. This can't be too comfortable."

Neal looked around and began to take in his surroundings. He was on the floor next to the bed, sheets and blankets twisted about him. He groaned and leaned back against the side of the bed as Peter and Elizabeth unwound the bedding.

Peter said, "Let's get you up from the floor, okay?"

"No, I'm good. I'll just stay here a while." Neal was still groggy from the nightmare. His bruised ribs were screaming at him from falling out of bed. "What time is it?"

"Around ten," said Elizabeth. "Time for more pain meds. You probably feel like you could use some."

"We've been watching a movie downstairs," Peter said. "Why don't you join us?"

Neal nodded but made no attempt to get up. He was still shaky from his nightmare and really didn't want to be alone, but it hurt too much to even try.

Peter slipped an arm around him. "C'mon. It may not be as bad as you think. We'll take it slow."

"Wait, what movie are you watching? It's not _Moby Dick_ , is it?" Now that he was more awake, he was feeling more than a little embarrassed at the commotion he'd caused.

Peter laughed. "Oh, I think monster movies are going to be on your forbidden list for a while, buddy."

With Peter's help, Neal eased himself up. The stairs were another ordeal, but not as painful as he'd feared.

Before long he was on the couch, propped up on pillows. Satchmo, beating a staccato drumbeat with his tail, pressed against the side of the couch. Still breathing heavily from the exertion, he closed his eyes. _Sleepless in Seattle_ murmured in the background. The words drifted in and out, but the music was relaxing. What was that song? "Make Someone Happy"? Yes, that was it. Easy to hum . . . .

**August 29, 2004. Sunday morning.**

Everyone slept in the next morning. When Peter and Elizabeth came downstairs at eight, Neal was still sacked out on the couch. They padded softly into the kitchen, closing the door behind them.

"I checked on him a few times during the night," said Peter as he made the coffee. "He appeared to be sleeping so soundly, I saw no point in waking him to go upstairs. Hope he doesn't have any additional cricks from sleeping on our couch."

El poured out a couple of glasses of orange. juice. "I'm glad he was able to sleep. Did he tell you anything about his nightmare?"

"No, but I can guess. You don't get hurled off a bridge without it doing a number to your psyche. And this wasn't the first time Neal nearly drowned."

"Not the first time?" El looked shocked as she handed him a glass. "What happened before?"

"When he turned 18, Neal learned he was in WITSEC and why. He couldn't handle it and ran away. Wound up crashing his car in a lake and if he hadn't been rescued by a passing motorist, he would have drowned." Shaking his head, Peter muttered, "Gotta eliminate car crashes and drownings in the future."

"He seemed to recover from the nightmare without too much difficulty," El noted with a smile. "His humming to the movie was quite entertaining!"

"Apparently drugs can make Neal loopy. When we were in St. Louis, I found him in a car doped out on cold meds and humming nonstop. I finally had to get him to switch to another tune to make him stop. Fortunately he didn't last very long last night. It can get very annoying, trust me."

"I don't know—I thought it was cute."

Squeaky sounds started coming from the living room. "Satchmo," Peter said with a groan, and went in to check. Sure enough, Satchmo was doing his best to get Neal interested in playing by dropping rubber toys next to the couch. Neal was laughing as Satchmo barked with excitement.

"Satchmo, no!" Peter went over to restrain his overly exuberant Labrador.

"Don't worry about it. He's fine. I should be getting up anyway."

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I was exploded out of a cannon, but I guess I'll live." Neal slowly extricated himself from his nest of pillows and blankets. "Sorry I crashed your date night."

Peter helped him up. "We were sleeping to the movie anyway. Not a problem having an extra person join the party."

Neal swayed a little as he got upright and put out a hand for support.

"You need a shoulder to go upstairs?" Peter asked.

"No, I got it, I think. I'll try to avoid crashing through your wall."

The shower was managed without any catastrophes and Neal made it through breakfast. But he was yawning so much throughout the meal, it was obvious he wasn't going to last much longer.

He excused himself, saying "I'll get out your way and head upstairs. Peter, I'll be in good shape to go back to my place this evening. That way I'll be able to get ready for work tomorrow."

"Oh no you don't. The doctor said 48 hours not 24. Besides, I'm giving everyone Monday off. After the Saturday we just had, we all need a break. Me, I'm going to spend Monday filling out the mountain of paperwork your adventure has caused, something I know you'll want to help me with."

Neal groaned. "I better rest while I can."

The day passed quietly with Neal asleep most of the time. In the evening, Peter had reserved the TV for baseball, a doubleheader. Surprisingly, Neal gave him no grief, even when the last game went on into overtime.

At midnight Peter and El called it a night and prepared to head upstairs.

"You coming too?" Peter asked.

Neal shook his head. "You know, I've slept so much during the day, I'm really not sleepy now. I saw _The Maltese Falcon_ was on tonight. Think I'll stay up for that."

"Uh-huh." Right. He'd been yawning all evening and now claimed to be wide awake. More likely Neal was trying to avoid a repetition of the previous night. They hadn't discussed his nightmare, but maybe they should.

At 3 a.m. Peter woke up. Noticing the downstairs light was still on, he decided to check on him. The TV was on, but Neal was asleep. Satchmo was lying on the floor next to him and wagged his tail when he saw Peter.

"Good boy, Satchmo," Peter whispered. With Satchmo guarding him, Neal should be free of sea monsters. Peter turned off the TV and let him sleep.

**August 30, 2004. Monday morning**

The next morning El left early to prepare for an upcoming event. Peter appropriated the dining room table to work while Neal, who insisted he was feeling much better, camped out on the couch. After a couple of hours, Peter was ready for a break. He glanced over at Neal, who was leaning back on the cushions with a decidedly bored look while twirling a pen in one hand.

"I'm calling a timeout," Peter announced. "You interested in coffee? El left us some biscotti."

"She's a wonderful woman. You should put these forms away first. Somewhere far away. Wouldn't want to get crumbs on them."

"I keep waiting for you to try to feed them to Satchmo. I don't know that I mentioned it, but the 'my-dog-ate-my-forms' excuse really doesn't cut it at the Bureau."

"You sure about that? Have you ever tried?"

Peter went into the kitchen and returned with the coffee and biscotti. Handing Neal a cup, he sprawled in a chair by the couch and stretched his legs out. "Ah, this is better."

Sipping his coffee, Neal looked at him questioningly.

"Something on your mind?" Peter asked.

"Not really. I'm just surprised you haven't asked me more about Saturday."

"I didn't know if you were ready. You feeling up to discussing it?"

"Sure, although I don't know that there's much more to tell. You heard the conversation. I kept thinking I could persuade him to pull over, but he was too unhinged to listen."

"According to the toxicology report, Harper had a massive amount of cocaine in him. It's a wonder he didn't crash the van earlier."

Neal shuddered. "You could tell from his eyes. They looked insane and empty at the same time. Hard to explain." Neal's expression clouded as his words trailed off.

"Your voice was remarkably calm and relaxed," Peter prompted. "I don't know how you managed that."

"I was so deep into the con, it wasn't difficult. But when I wasn't getting through to him, I switched tactics, trying to get him to pull over. Nothing worked."

"I wouldn't say that," Peter countered. "After all, you did keep him from shooting you. When were you able to get the egg from him?"

"When we raced out of the park, he'd snatched the egg and put it in an inside pocket of his jacket. He tied my hands to the dashboard. Child's play to get out of them, but he kept glancing over and I didn't want to alarm him even more. I was waiting for the right moment." Neal stopped and glanced over at Peter, "I was really trying not to be reckless."

"You sure  you weren't so caught up in trying to help Sonya—the whole damsel in distress vibe—that you ignored the risk to yourself?"

"I don't think so," Neal said slowly. "When we approached the bridge I saw the police cars. Figured it would be over, but he was so high, that meant nothing to him. It was only after he sideswiped the truck that I had a chance to get the hen."

"You mean as the van was being hurled off the bridge, that's when you pocketed it?" Peter asked incredulously.

Neal shrugged. "Once we were on the bridge, Harper was so busy trying to avoid cars, he didn't notice when I freed myself. The way he was weaving, a crash looked inevitable so I'd already taken the papers and rolled down my window before it happened."

"By the way, I brought your clothes back from the hospital. That's some hoodie. Looks like it has a special inner layer to it. The lab guys went nuts over the pouch. Was that a Mozzie job?"

"Yes, that was his own design. The hoodie's lining conceals the shape of an object hidden inside the pouch, which, by the way, I'd like to have back someday."

"That can be arranged," Peter said and added casually, "How'd you sleep last night? Any nightmares?"

"Not too bad. I guess it will take a while."

"The one you had Saturday night . . . ."

"Yeah, that one was off the scale."

"Wanna talk about it? Might help."

At first Neal didn't say anything, but sat sipping his coffee. The words started slowly. "I was dreaming about being underwater. About Harper. I see his corpse in the car. He's dead but then he revives and prevents me from escaping. I relive the drowning, the feeling of not being able to breathe." He looked over at Peter and exhaled. "Pretty standard, I guess."

"You were calling out, 'You're not me' and 'Stay away'. Was that Harper?"

"No that was me," Neal admitted. "I saw myself in my nightmare." He gave a small hollow laugh. "I thought I was swimming up to a boat, but it turned out to be me. Scary stuff. Shrinks would have a field day."

"I dunno. You've experienced too many drownings. We're gonna have to call a moratorium on that." Peter hesitated and then ploughed ahead with a subject he knew Neal wasn't going to like. "You know it's also routine to have a few sessions of therapy after what you went through. You could talk with your aunt Noelle, or if you don't want to get her involved, the FBI shrinks are actually very competent. There were some cases that I had a hard time getting over, and they helped. You don't need to talk about anything but what happened that day. Something to think about."

Neal looked off in the distance and reflected. "Let me see how it goes for a few days. If the nightmares continue, I'll consider it, okay?"

Peter knew not to press. This was less resistance than he expected. "That's acceptable."

"I was thinking I'd head home this afternoon," Neal said, standing up. "I can take a cab. I really appreciate all you've done, but it would be nice to have some time at home before work."

"How 'bout this? I'll drop you off on my way in tomorrow morning."

"That will work. I'll just need a few minutes to change and then be ready to go in."

"No, that's a non-starter. You're staying home tomorrow. If you feel up to it, you can come in on Wednesday. You're going to be restricted to light duty anyway for a few weeks. Somehow I don't think you'll find it necessary to rush in for processing case files."

"When you put it that way, Wednesday it is."

**White Collar Division. September 3, 2004. Friday morning**

The case of the missing Fabergé egg had not been difficult to wrap up. With Harper dead there was no need to prepare evidence for a trial, and that was perhaps for the best as the evidence was all circumstantial. Peter reviewed the documentation. The papers that Neal had procured provided the best link to Trifonov. The handwriting had been confirmed as his, and the translation revealed they were notes about the authenticity of the egg.

With the case closed, there was no need to hold on to the egg and Sonya Pashkina was scheduled to arrive shortly to pick it up. Ivan Sherkov had also asked to be present.

Peter descended into the bullpen to talk with Neal before they arrived. This was his third day back at work, and except for a little stiffness in the way he held himself, no one would suspect what had happened. But Peter knew he was still tired and was mandating reduced hours that week.

He didn't find Neal at his desk, but looking around, he saw him in the conference room. Neal was carefully polishing the egg. He had placed the hen and stand on a velvet jewelry tray. The diamonds cast rainbows of light on the polished surface of the table.

"Magnificent isn't it," he said as Peter approached. "This is probably my last chance to look at it. Sonya should have no problem paying off her student loans now."

Downstairs in the bullpen, a deep, booming voice could be heard. "Is this where I can find Neal Caffrey?"

Neal grinned. "Sherkov's arrived. You're gonna like him."

They went downstairs and Neal made the introductions.

Shaking Peter's hand, Sherkov said "This is such an honor for me, Peter. May I call you Peter? I feel like I know you already."

"It's only fitting you should be here," said Peter. "None of this would have happened if you hadn't contacted us."

Gazing around the bullpen with curiosity, Sherkov told Neal, "This is indeed revealing to see where you work, my friend. Your workspace is enlightening. It has so much potential for artistic enrichment."

"Exactly what I've been telling them."

Peter chuckled. "You know you're an instigator, Ivan. I can see I'll have to keep an eye on you."

When Sonya arrived, the four of them headed up to the conference room. This was Sherkov's first opportunity to view the hen, and he was overwhelmed.

"I'm honored you allowed me to be present, Miss Pashkina. A discovery such as this is a once in a lifetime experience. You and your hen are both going to be very famous, my dear."

Neal added, "I took the opportunity to examine it in detail. The gems, the workmanship, they're all exquisite. I've absolutely no doubt as to its authenticity."

"I wish the hen could talk to us," Sherkov said. "What a history it would reveal! Peter, you may not know it was presented by Tsar Alexander III to his wife the Tsarina Maria Feodorovna in 1886. Despite it being an arranged marriage and the prevailing political turmoil, theirs was a love affair that transcended the events around them."

"And now the hen's history is even more dramatic," Sonya said. "That chase, the crash on the George Washington Bridge, your van falling off the bridge . . . ."

Dumbfounded, Sherkov stared at Neal. "That was you on the bridge?"

Neal nodded with a modest shrug, but it was easy to tell he was basking in the attention.

"Unbelievable. I of course read the newspaper account but I had no idea."

"The FBI maintains a low profile in such events," Peter explained. "We only release the minimum of information necessary."

Sonya turned to Neal and asked, "Were you able to open the egg?"

"The clasp was slightly out of alignment. A simple adjustment was all that was needed. Would you like to open it?"

Sonya opened the clasp and slowly raised the lid, growing wide-eyed with joy when she saw what was revealed. The inside of the egg was coated in sapphire blue enamel. Mounted in the center was a miniature portrait of a couple in royal attire, set within an ornate frame studded with diamonds.

"The tsar and tsarina, I assume?" Peter asked.

Neal nodded.

"Spectacular!" Sherkov, peering closely at the portrait, predicted, "The news of this will spread like wildfire once it's revealed."

After a few more minutes, Sherkov left and Peter had Sonya sign the transfer papers for the egg.

She turned to them and said. "I can't begin to thank you enough for all you have done for me. There's little I can do for the moment, but I wondered . . . next week we start a new production of _The Magic Flute_. By any chance, do you like Mozart?"

"Why yes, in fact he's one of my favorite composers," Neal said enthusiastically.

Sonya beamed. "I'll get tickets for you and Mr. and Mrs. Burke for the premiere. I could join you at the post-premiere party afterwards?"

After Sonya left, Peter, shaking his head, gave Neal a wide grin.

"What?" asked Neal innocently.

"You know what!"

"So, about that letter of recommendation you wrote for me—this would be an excellent and highly appropriate occasion to let—"

"Not a chance," Peter said with a smile.

 

* * *

_Notes: Thanks for reading! Your comments are my caviar and very much appreciated._

_This concludes the tale of The Golden Hen. The actual Golden Hen, the second imperial Fabergé egg, is still lost, waiting to be discovered. But you won't have long to wait for Neal's next adventure, The Woman in Blue. The action begins a couple of weeks after the conclusion of The Golden Hen when a friend from the past is a catalyst for danger and suspense._

_My heartfelt thanks to Penna Nomen for helping me incubate the egg and putting up with my clucks of frustration. That this didn't wind up being one scrambled egg is due to her._

_The Golden Hen is part of the Caffrey Conversation AU. The first story in the series, Caffrey Conversation by Penna Nomen, includes the account of Peter finding Neal humming in a car along with the first drowning incident_.

 _Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_ _Chapter Visuals: The Golden Hen board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


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